


The Star

by Jim_del_Carnival (orphan_account)



Category: Count Duckula
Genre: Crushing Dreams, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Jim_del_Carnival
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duckula had always pursued a future brimming with fame and fortune. When too many stars filled his eyes and blinded him to reality, Igor was there to remind him that his future had already been determined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Star

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of many Duckula fics I have in progress. Surprisingly, I finished this one in a couple of hours because my best friend and I were having our timed writing challenge and they always give me the most inspiration. 
> 
> This was fun to write, but don't read too much into it. I think the most fun comes from how melodramatic Duckula is and how he reacts to things. And I really love the way they talk! Igor especially. It's fun to write like people talked in A Tale of Two Cities.

Dabbling in dark occult was no novelty to the Duckula lineage, nor to anyone associated with it. Divination and symbols and incantations were generally avoided by the common villager boasting common sense. But to Duckula, mysticism was as natural—and dull—as breathing. He had been brought into existence itself by a rite of blood and black magic; for a deck of cards to excite him, they had to promise much. And the stack of tarot cards offered by a traveling diviner promised everything.

 

“Of course I’d like to hear what'll happen in my future!” Duckula leaned over the table and into the shadow cast by the burlap tent curtains. “You really mean that these cards can show me an answer to _anything_ I ask?”

 

Had he seen his own greedy grin and frazzled hair, he would have understood the divining raven's twitchy unease. She pushed aside her veil and looked away, keeping her hand curled against her face. The dozens of cheap rings on her fingers glittered.

 

“More or less, dahlink. For a paltry sum, of course.” After this reminder she smiled sweetly. The earrings clipped to her feathers swished against her cheeks.

 

“Cards first,” Duckula said. "Paltry later." Ignoring the diviner’s protests, he snatched the deck of cards that lay in the pentagram carved into the wooden tabletop. A few cards slipped from his grasp and scattered over the ground. The diviner nearly dove over the bench to grab at them. Duckula took a delicate step to the right and closed his eyes.

 

“Dear cards,” he began somberly: “Will I ever become rich and famous?”

 

He held up the remaining cards. Sunlight made a blinding halo around them. He squinted at the fan of cards for a long, silent moment. Then, he plucked one from the stack to hold it up triumphantly.

 

“Go Fish!”

 

Dusk had settled by the time Duckula returned to the castle that evening. He meandered around the sitting room nonchalantly awhile before succumbing to the urge to consult Igor about that fortunetelling business. He was compelled to ask why the diviner had given him no answers--even after she had gathered the fallen cards and barked at him that she needed no assistance in doing so. Duckula had taken her suggestion to leave, too frightened to hand her the last card he had retrieved.

 

“I don’t get it, Igor,” Duckula said after relaying the experience. “The whole thing was a waste of time. I didn't get one single iota of an answer. And she told me those magic cards of hers could answer any question I ponder in myself a lot.”

 

“And what question might that be, milord?” Igor said in a way that suggested it didn't quite concern him.

 

“Well, it should be rather obvious." Duckula straightened with a sense of importance to convince himself that, despite Igor's disinterest, the matter was pressing and needed to be discussed.

 

“I should think I’d like to know whether or not I’m going to ever become fabulously wealthy and world famous. As many times as I’ve tried without getting anywhere, I’ve wondered sometimes if it’s meant to be at all. That's kind of discouraging, wouldn’t you think?”

 

“Indeed.“ Igor turned a page of his newspaper and made no further comment.

 

Duckula propped his hands against his sides to lean into a glare that could have seared a hole through concrete. Upon receiving no response, he snatched the top of the newspaper and crushed it down into Igor's lap. Igor blinked a couple of times. The transition from having his beak poked into an obituary to having it in Duckula's face was jarring at the least.

 

“Igor!" Duckula's pitchy whine made Igor wince. "Igor, you’re just as useless as those cards. I ask you a question, and you don’t give me any answer either! Tell me: why didn't those magic cards show me anything? You'd better not tell me that it was just some rip-off racket, either, because my last three drachmas happen to be in someone else's pocket right now because of it.”

 

Igor watched Duckula for a long time, as if deciding what to say or whether to even speak at all. Fifteen agonizing seconds of locking stares with Duckula's squinted, troubled eyes won him over. He took off his reading glasses, clacked the arms flat against the lenses, and tucked them into his pocket.

 

“It was likely no mere racket, milord. I have had my dealings and encounters with tarot readers, and their tools are genuine. But vampires, sir—such as yourself—contend with other forces of the supernatural. Your nature itself, however you may wish to deny it, is a tempest of wicked magic that overthrows any interference from other forces. Your 'magic cards' included. When vampires are involved, divination is feeble.” He paused. “Do you understand, milord?”

 

Duckula considered this, rolling the explanation through his mind until it became even more jumbled. “Um . . . not exactly. But we’ll be saying that I do, because all in all I don’t really care about whatever it is that you said, because it still didn’t give me any answers about my future.”

 

Igor breathed a long, weary sigh that made his shoulders sag even lower. “Milord . . . your future has been predetermined. Toying with cards was useless to begin with in that regard. Your future needn't be revealed or sifted out of clouds of uncertainty; we know already what it is. The moment you began to exist, being what you are, your future was set—as if in stone, if you will.”

 

Duckula narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about, Igor? Futures can’t just be decided like that, before a person's even begun to make any choices to affect it. You can’t ‘set in stone’ for real and for truly posi-lutely for certain what hasn’t even happened yet!” The tone of one talking to a toddler faded from his voice when he asked, “. . . Can you?”

 

Perhaps it was his sudden sincerity or the small voice in which he gave the question that made Igor soften. Igor closed his eyes as though to relish the last few moments of comfort in his chair before stiffly rising to his feet. He creaked like an old door when he moved.

 

“Come with me, sir,” he said, sliding his newspaper under his arm. “In order to answer the question you’ve presented multiple times while I’ve been trying to relax, perhaps I should first propose a question to you.”

 

Startled and intrigued, Duckula remained bolstered in place for a minute. Whenever Igor humored him instead of dismissing him, things were less than apt to be pleasant. Gathering his wits, yet too curious to hesitate further, Duckula scampered after Igor.

 

They began the trek down the long hall. The darkness was cut only by the faint wavering glow of torches mounted here and there. Shadows dripped like molasses down the walls, and the entire corridor smelled of mildew and rust.

 

Duckula grabbed the corners of his cape to wrap it tighter around himself, warding off a chill. He hated wandering this particular long hall that held so many barred, rotting doors. When he glanced up at Igor’s tall back, a gleam of reassurance comforted him. Igor knew every brick and board in the castle, and nothing could take him by surprise. Duckula quickened his pace to follow more closely behind Igor. To keep from looking into the gaping throat of the tunnel ahead, he concentrated on matching his pace with Igor's. Slow. Slow. Dreadfully repetitive with no changes in its thump-clack rhythm.

 

“Here we are, milord.” Igor’s low voice sounded ten times louder in the hall. Duckula nearly plowed into Igor’s back when he halted. Staggering back a bit, he peered around Igor, expecting to see something far more spectacular than a dry-rotted oaken door. Duckula wilted in disappointment.

 

“Oh. It’s, uh, just the old parlor.” With a sniff of disdain, Duckula released his hold on his cape to let the edges brush the stone floor. He adjusted his bow tie with a jerk, gathering his dignity and feeling overall foolish. “Here I was, thinking we were going to do something important. I thought you were going to take me to a dark room to cast a spell or contact a different realm that sees into time or what-have-you. Or you could have at least taken me to the library to gather books about fortunetelling!”

 

Igor didn’t blink during Duckula’s rant. When Duckula paused for a breath, Igor gave him an appraising glance that asked without a single word, "Are you quite finished?" Duckula distinctly sensed he were smothering under indignation.

 

Igor turned to push the parlor door open. The hinges bawled, and a mesh of cobwebs tore from the frame when the door opened.

 

“Soothsaying is, as I told you, fruitless, milord.”

 

Igor stepped into the ice-cold room. The rough carpet fibers crackled beneath his heels. He trudged past the dust-caked sofa toward the crumbling fireplace. Solemn as ever, he folded his hands behind his back. He stood, Duckula noticed begrudgingly, just a little bit straighter.

 

“Come here, milord. It’s time for you to answer my question.”

 

Hesitantly, Duckula leaned into the room. He surveyed every corner in a sweep, as if fearful something were lurking in the dark. Picking up his cape again, he flounced into the room nervously and stopped by Igor’s side.

 

Just enough moonlight filtered through the cracks in the barred window to illuminate the wall. An eerie green glow reflected off the glass and gilded frame of sixteen portraits. Duckula’s heart sank like a stone into his gut. His nerves began to bundle up and tighten.

 

“Igor, I’ve seen those dreadful pictures before. I don’t want to hear a word about any of my fathers, or their fathers, or their fathers’ fathers or their aunts or cousins or whatever. I’ve always told you I don’t like this filthy room. It gives me terrible creeps, and would you look at the time? I do believe we're almost due for dinner, and you do know how Nanny likes us to be punctual for dinner.”

 

As if he hadn’t heard Duckula at all, Igor continued staring at the long row of portraits. “Tell me, sir. What do each of these have in common?”

 

Duckula gave a huff of frustration. “They’re all ugly? They’re all disgusting, heartless monsters who wasted their lives on bloodsucking and village-terrorizing and maiden-snatching?”

 

Igor glanced at him. Duckula despised his small amused smile. “I thought you wanted the answer to your question, milord.”

 

Duckula considered this. His stomach felt heavy. Growing numb, he turned back to the portraits. The sick feeling intensified as his gaze meandered over each picture.

 

"This is ridiculous, Igor," he said softly. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on repeating what he knew Igor wanted to hear.

 

“My first ancestor, Count Duckula I, died by wandering into sunlight, having no idea of the real consequence of one warm ray. Count Duckula II died by a silver blade. Count Duckula III was killed by—by a stake at the hand of a vampire hunter.” Duckula swallowed, suddenly understanding what Igor meant by leading him here. Dread and sickness in its purest form settled in a hard knot in his middle. He recited what Igor had relayed to him countless times before, but his own voice sounded hollow and far away like a dream.

 

“Count Duckula IV died by sunlight. Duckula V by a stake. The Sixth by silver. The Seventh by stake. Eighth by Sunlight. Sunlight. Stake. Stake. Stake. Stake.” He stammered a bit before managing to murmur, “Duckula XV by . . . by his own hand after betrayal. Duckula XVI by . . . Igor, I don’t want to say any more. I refuse.”

 

“Very well, milord." Igor nodded in sedate satisfaction. "That was sufficient, if, I assume, you understand now? What did the futures—or may I say instead, fates—of your forefathers each have in common?”

 

Duckula looked at the pictures again. They hung from the peeling wall, furry with dust, yellowed with age. The red, bloodshot eyes from the paintings stared down at him in contempt.

 

“I despise your games, Igor,” Duckula said vehemently. The spark faded, and Duckula slumped in defeat. “I get what you’re trying to tell me now. I should have guessed it from the start. Each of my ancestors—they all died because they were killed by someone who hated them. Stabbed, lured out beneath the sun, captured and held outside in broad daylight, chased by mobs to exhaustion until the sun rose, skewered through the heart with a stake. All those horrible things you talk about. And,” he added in a sugary lilt, “it’s all for no reason other than that they were vampires, isn’t it?”

 

“You needn’t say ‘they’, milord. You’re just as much part of the line as the Duckula who began it. Despite being a disappointment and upholding none of the standards your great ancestors set, you are still a vampire. And your future, milord, is the same as theirs.”

 

A flash of rage made Duckula clutch his fists around his cape and squeeze with all the force he wished he could expel in a tantrum. “How can you even say that, Igor? That’s just silly—silly and positively presumptuous! What, are you some sort of diviner now? Have you made a crystal ball out of a skull or something and been reading my future whenever my back is turned?”

 

Duckula’s patronization did nothing to intimidate Igor. It only left Duckula laughing without a trace of mirth, just to shake the tightness and tension in his gut while he hoped Igor would smile back in response and admit how ludicrous it all was. But Igor’s countenance was as somber as a funeral. Duckula immediately sobered.

 

“Seven and a half centuries of faithful service is enough observation and experience to outdo any crystal ball in credibility. Seven and a half centuries of seeing sixteen Duckula live their own lives and follow their own paths. Not one could ever have been mistaken for another. Duckula IX devoted himself to gambling; the Eleventh chose a life of scientific studies. The Third was a gallant horseman, and the Sixteenth wrote journals with the conciseness and clarity of Hemingway.

 

“Each of your fathers was entirely different. Nothing linked them together apart from vampiric lineage. And yet, despite spanning across centuries, and throughout different eras and societies, they have all met the same fate.”

 

Duckula looked at the floor, examining the intricate Moroccan pattern of the carpet. He clenched his fists in his cape and gritted his teeth. The wish for Igor to simply shut up was more intense than his wish for fame had ever been.

 

“It is no coincidence, milord.” Igor finally let his arms fall to dangle by his sides and turned from the wall of paintings. His yellow stare cut through the darkness, heavy and half-lidded. “It can be nothing but fate that sixteen different men, with no similarities other than their own nature, met the same untimely end. Because they all were vampires, they could not settle into a world that was not meant for them.”

 

Silence fell, thick as a blanket and just as suffocating. Igor’s ribs creaked when he breathed. Tree branches clacked together outside. The breeze that sneaked through the slats in the window moaned through the rafters overhead.

 

“So . . . so that’s the answer?” Duckula swallowed. Igor’s expression remained the same—flat and tired as always. There was no concern or pity, only exhaustion. It was as if Igor didn’t hear him. A static charge of panic made Duckula raise his voice to a shout.

 

“No. No, that can’t, can’t, can’t be the answer! Are you saying that no matter what I do or how hard I try or how many brilliant ideas I come up with, I’m doomed to be killed and lose everything? Just because people hate me for something I am but I’m not? That’s a miserable life, Igor! Is that why you can never show even a little enthusiasm for my plans? Because you think that, even if I succeed, I’ll just get killed and it will all be lost anyway?”

 

“No, milord. That has nothing to do with it. Your schemes, or ‘ideas’ as you call them, are harebrained and have no chance of success.”

 

“This isn’t something to joke about, Igor!” Duckula beat his arms through the air in violent gestures like a windmill, trying to maintain his unraveling composure. “I don’t want to go around every day without any plans just because I know it’s pointless. That’s dismal! That’s horrible, awful, pathetic, terrible, it’s—it’s—“

 

“Reality, milord?”

 

 Reality. Duckula tightened his shoulders. Reality? Fate? Set in stone? Igor’s matter-of-fact tone made his heart go cold as a hailstone. To everyone but Duckula, the matter was as good as settled. He was a vampire, doomed to die in disgrace. Denied the privilege of leaving behind an inspiring legacy or remnants of wealth and respect for the ones who would come after him. 

 

Giving Duckula no more time to reflect in silence, Igor took a few steps forward. When Duckula didn't follow, Igor beckoned.

 

“Come along, milord. I suppose the nanny has the table set with broken china and the napkins dyed with pea soup by now. I’d best be tending business in the basement myself, if you’ll excuse me.”

 

Rage swelled in Duckula. How Igor could behave so nonchalantly after delivering such a depressing speech was beyond Duckula’s comprehension.

 

“Of course, of course,” he said vaguely. "Dinner, yes." He trailed out of the room behind Igor. When he shut the door, the smell of musty tapestry and mildew dissipated.

 

Duckula sagged against the door for support before Igor could notice that he stumbled. Igor pinned him with one last critical glance before slowly turning and trudging into the shadows. The thump-clack of his footsteps faded, and he was gone.

 

So this was the answer he’d asked for, Duckula thought. No—not the answer—Igor’s answer. Nothing more. Igor had aged through the decades like cheese, growing moldy and ripe with bitterness and discontentment. Of course Igor would tout the answer of inescapable fate. He had seen sixteen masters come and go, and one that had yet to go. Of course the routine would seem like a deplorable fate to his tired eyes. Of course.

 

 Duckula clamped his arms around his middle. Thoughts of his ancestors sloshed through his head in a mush. Surely they had led fulfilled lives. As fulfilled as a bloodthirsty creature’s life could possibly be, at any rate. If Igor remembered them by such monikers as ‘scientist’, ‘horseman’, ‘gambler’—surely they each had accomplished something and achieved a measure of success. And each of the Duckula were remembered; that was a success in itself.

 

“A miserable death and fate might be Igor’s answer to future, but that doesn’t mean anything. Why did I let him scare me, anyhow? Maybe everybody has their own answer that’s actually just a guess that sounds good.”

 

Duckula sighed. “It was silly of me to think I could pay a stranger to shuffle a deck of cards and tell me my future. Well, I don’t know for certain what my answer is, but I do know it’s not going to be one that says I have no chance of fame. No sir, a life of boring repetition is not what I’m after. When it comes to the line of Duckula, I want to be separate from the scientists and gamblers and writers that Igor brags about so much. I’m going to be better than all of them. I’m going to be known as ‘the star’!”

 

On impulse, Duckula tucked his hand into his shirt and fumbled before withdrawing a card. He had almost forgotten he slipped it into his jacket while arguing with the divining raven in the village. The paper had practically burned in his pocket.

 

He examined the card with disgust. How useless the village excursion had been—to think he had been so excited about fortunetelling just this morning. What a waste the gloomy day had been!

 

He tossed the card into the blackness of the hall as though he were a hurling a discus in the Olympics. 

 

“And that’ll be the last I see of you!”

 

He wanted nothing more to do with cards, and if Nanny suggested they play a game of rummy after dinner he thought he should scream.

 

As he stamped down the hall and flung his cape over his shoulders, the breeze made the torches flicker erratically. The light that leapt up illuminated the corridor and caught the gloss of the card for a millisecond. Stuck between two crooked cobblestones, the card wavered in the musty air. The words ‘ _THE STAR_ ’ glowed just before the shadows oozed down again and flooded the hall.


End file.
